Houyhnhnm (Equation)

Your thick armor blocks attacks and crushes starskiffs. Your four limbs roam around the battlefield as though you have inexhaustible energy. No mortal being is your match. Death nourishes the grass and the blood gathers into streams. The world is a vast wilderness, ready to be trampled and traversed by you.

You wield a living weapon, a spear crafted by the borisin. Its tentacles can pierce through the chest of enemies and devour their bodies. Whenever you charge through the battlefield and fire, cries of agony come from your enemies' throats as well as the tip of their spear like the howling wind on wintry nights.

Primal instincts and pleasures surge in your body, and you yearn to reclaim the freedom to hunt and kill in this age of iron and fire. You will march relentlessly forward until the day destruction, too, claims you.